Mama, We All Go to Hell
by Fluorescent Starlight
Summary: Post-book. Ernesto Barbarossa is all grown up, transformed from a plump little redhead into a tall, muscled boy of sixteen. He returns to Venice after running away from his boarding school, seeking both revenge and to take up the Thief Lord's mantle.
1. History

**A/N: I've been toying with this idea for a while; inspired by the very last few lines of the book. Barbarossa is definitely not my favorite character or anything, **_**buuuuuut**_** I had to give this a try, because I'm quite fond of this idea. The title comes from the My Chemical Romance song "Mama." REVIEW, please, and let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: Cornelia Funke owns just about everything.**

* * *

**Mama, We All Go to Hell |1| History**

It had been little more than a decade since Ernesto Barbarossa's transformation into a plump little six-year-old at the fault of the Merciful Sister's merry-go-round. And he'd despised Scipio Massimo for the trickery of it every second of his life.

He was, however, grateful for the second chance at youth. He took care of his body better, this time eating healthy foods and keeping an athletic lifestyle at the boarding school Esther Hartlieb had shipped him off to all those years ago. He grew very vain and conceited of his appearance—though, with good reason to. Ernesto had grown into a tall, lean and wiry young man all the girls swooned over. He dyed his red hair pitch black, and he was careful to keep it that way and in a constant state of disarray. He was quite a good looking lad.

It was a shame, however, that his insides did not match his outsides. Ernesto was terribly cruel to all those around him; he bullied his teachers, his few friends, treated girls like dirt on the occasions that he got together with one, and was a frequent visitor to the dean.

"_Why do you act this way, Ernesto?"_ the dean would always ask.

Ernesto's answers would vary—always being snarky and rude—but then he would always ponder the dean's question late in the night. And he didn't have an honest answer. He thought, perhaps, he was just a naturally unkind person, and he was incapable of being anything but.

He had tried on multiple occasions to be "nice," but it never lasted. He was much too uncomfortable pretending to be something he wasn't; he always reverted back to his old self, treating anyone around him like they were nothing more than the dirt under his feet.

He was hated and despised, with little friends and little reason for having them.

"_Why do you act this way, Ernesto?"_

"_Because I hate it here!" _Ernesto had snapped back one day. _"I hate it here, and I want to leave!"_

The dean had looked surprised, and then he had said simply, _"Then leave. What, exactly, is stopping you?"_

It was that very second that the idea was implanted into Ernesto's mind.

Three nights later, he was gone without a trace.

The school, of course, alerted the Hartliebs of Ernesto's disappearance, but it was safe to say, the teachers and the dean were relieved.

The Thief Lord was gone.


	2. Venice

**A/N: Review, please :)**

**Disclaimer: Cornelia Funke owns.**

* * *

**Mama, We All Go to Hell |2| Venice**

Ernesto inhaled deeply, taking in the salty, unique scent of Venice. He was back, and he had never been happier. He stepped off the _vaporetto,_ carrying his bag full of meager belongings, and he started walking. He hadn't been in Venice in ten years, but he hoped the more he walked, the more his memory of the city would come back to him.

Eventually, he found himself following the familiar path down towards what was once his shop. His expression fell when he noticed how much it had fallen out of care since it had been in his. The windows were dusty, and one was even a little cracked. Hanging in the window on the door was an ancient-looking _PER AFFITTO _sign, with a phone number beneath it.

Ernesto stepped up to the window, cupped his hands around his eyes, and peered inside. He gasped at the vast emptiness within it, barely able to comprehend the loss of all those treasures he'd accumulated in his past life. All gone, and God knew where they were.

He growled fiercely under his breath, backing up and peering up at the windows above the shop, where his old apartment had been. Was someone else living there now? Was it just as he'd left it ten years ago? Or was it just like the shop, empty?

The curiosity was driving him mad, but he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to find out about his old home. As heartless as Ernesto Barbarossa was, certain things could still pierce his heart. The loss of his home was sure to be powerful blow, and Ernesto decided that he would just rather not know.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the saved-up Euros in there and comforted by their presence. There was quite a bit of money he had saved up from his years as living as Esther and Max Hartlieb's adopted son, but he knew it couldn't support him forever. He would need to find a new way to live.

As he turned away from his former shop, an angry scowl found its way on his face.

"They'll regret the day they ever ruined me," Ernesto mumbled to himself.

His hands clenched into lethal fists in his pockets.

* * *

Ernesto paced his hotel room soon after his rediscovery of his shop. He'd bought a cheap room for five nights, though he wasn't sure he'd be willing to stay there that long; the hotel wasn't of the best quality.

What was he possibly going to do? He was only sixteen, more or less—he would be lucky if he could find any job that would hire him, and somehow live off of that money.

No, it just couldn't be done on minimum wage, even with all the saved-up money.

Ernesto sat on the edge of the hotel bed and placed his head in his hands, groaning to himself.

"Those stupid brats," he muttered for what was likely the fifth time since he'd returned to Venice.

Were those children still living in Venice? The Thief Lord and his irritating charges? The Thief Lord would be thirty or so by now, and his little friends would all be well into adulthood as well.

But had they remained in Venice? Would he recognize them if he saw them?

Well, they certainly would never look at him and realize it was him. He had the upper hand there.

Ernesto already felt his mind beginning to scheme. He'd entertained himself through all those days of school with thoughts of vengeance, imagining what he would do to those brats if he ever got his hands on them again. Kill them, no. Give them the trouble they deserved? _Yes_.

His lips pulled up in a smile as he dug a coin from his pocket. _All in good time,_ he thought to himself, rolling the coin across his fingers, back and forth like a pendulum. _Oh, yes, Ernesto Barbarossa _will _have his revenge._


	3. The Thief Lord

**A/N: Mr. Barbarossa seems like the chauvinistic type, yes? I've been excited to write Ernesto's accomplice in. Reviews will make me continue the story :) I'd like to thank Poison Sweet Madeira for reviewing...since no one else seems to be interested in doing so... Pfffft.**

**Disclaimer: Cornelia Funke owns.**

* * *

**Mama, We All Go to Hell |3| The Thief Lord**

It came to Ernesto in the middle of the night, waking him from a fitful sleep.

What if the _real _Thief Lord—_me, of course,_ he thought snidely—took Venice back, and held it all in the palm of his hand? What if he took up the old Thief Lord's mantle, and became the greatest thief in Venice? Fearless, daring, the ever evasive thief that the _carabinieri _could only dream of catching…yes, he liked the sound of that. A life living on the outside of the law, a villain, a criminal.

_I could own this city_, he thought, relishing the idea. It lulled him back into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

He began to piece his plans together come sunrise. He would buy a mask, and a few knives, anything else he could think of off the top of his head whenever he went out. He would spent the next four days at the hotel, just so his money would not be wasted, and then he would find an old place in Castello to stay, someplace he wouldn't have to pay to live in. An old church, perhaps.

But the more he thought about it, he wondered if he should do this entire thing on his own. Ernesto contemplated finding someone, an accomplice of sorts. But he couldn't place an ad in the paper—it would be madness to publish an add requesting someone, anyone, with any criminal experience to become his literal partner in crime.

He considered the idea more and more as he went out that day and went into a nearby mask shop. Floor to ceiling, even hanging from the roof, were hundreds of masks, some cheap and simple, others more elaborate and as pricey as they came. Ernesto walked along the walls, considering all the empty faces staring right back at him.

He considered one, black and with a long, bird-like nose. Ernesto rang a finger along its nose, then grimaced and shook his head. It was too unwieldy. And too unique; as much as Ernesto adored originality, his mask would have to be nondescript—something anyone could have.

He moved on down the wall, considering the masks before him before one caught his eye. It was a simple mask that only covered around the eyes and nose, but Ernesto knew it didn't have to be elaborate. It was black, of course, but with a ring of gold lining the edge of the mask. Upon closer examination, Ernesto saw how the gold twisted into shapes, into curving vines and leaves. There was something oddly appealing about it—romantic and dangerous all at once.

He bought several of the same masks; who was to say he wouldn't lose one?

Ernesto circled around all of Venice during his day of buying necessities, including the purchase a set of four knives that could come in handy and a small kit full of small, narrow pieces of metal he was sure would make an excellent lock-picking kit.

As he returned to his hotel room, he was considerably more cheerful than he had been initially. This just might actually work out for him.

And then he began to seriously consider this whole accomplice idea. The way he thought of it, if he was going to begin a new life as a thief, then he certainly couldn't do it all on his own. He needed a helper, an assistant, an accomplice, a…_sidekick_. He began to compile a checklist in his head.

Young, and preferably someone already involved in the thievery business. Something with experience in that area, as well as used to being on their own. That meant they could either be an orphan or a runaway, both of which settled just fine with him. His accomplice would need to be intelligent, to some degree, although not any smarter than him. They would need to be quick, with their hands and on their feet. They needed to be street smart.

But most of all, they had to be completely disposable. If it came down to it, Ernesto needed someone he could let the _carabinieri _catch for his crimes and feel no remorse.

_Maybe a girl,_ he thought in amusement. _She'd have to be attractive; I can't be looking at an ugly dog every single day of my life._

Ernesto wanted to begin looking tomorrow, but he wasn't quite sure what he had to be looking for, even with his list. He couldn't take one look at someone and automatically think _experienced thief._ If they were an experienced thief, then whenever they stole, it would probably be nearly invisible to the eye.

And that would make things so much more difficult.

* * *

Ernesto watched the girl from halfway across St. Mark's square, through the zoomed-in lens of a digital camera he'd discreetly snatched from a careless tourist's open bag.

He watched her as she tried to entice a group of male American tourists that had made the error of making eye contact. She was selling watches—knock-off Rolexes—and by the look of it, she wasn't a very good saleswoman. Ernesto was sure the only reason the Americans hadn't left her yet was because of the girl's flirting and flaunting.

She knew what she was doing, at least.

Ernesto wished he could hear what the girl was saying, but she was too far away. It was obvious the tourists weren't interested in buying any watches, but the girl stepped in front of them if they tried to leave, becoming more and more insistent. It appeared she knew some amount of English—maybe not fluently, but enough to communicate without trouble, but Ernesto was sure a little Italian was slipping through.

She was tall and thin, with spidery limbs and long legs. A mass of wild, dark hair fell across her shoulders, and her olive skin was well-bronzed from the sun. He couldn't see her eyes from behind the large sunglasses she wore.

There was a quick glint of metal, and Ernesto watched through the camera as the girl slipped her hand around the back of one of the Americans, reaching his backpack and cutting the zipper off one of the pockets. Her hand slipped into the pocket, and it came back out grasping a wallet. None of the tourists noticed a thing.

Ernesto gave a low, impressed whistle to himself as the girl quickly slipped the wallet into her own pocket, being very discreet, and she even succeeded in selling a watch.

Ernesto may have just found his accomplice.

* * *

"I have a job for you."

The girl glanced up from where was going through the wallet and at Ernesto. Her eyes were still concealed behind her sunglasses, but her eyebrows lifted.

"_Scusi_?" she asked. Then she shook her head. "You're mistaken. I'm not looking for any job."

"I think you are."

The girl laughed without any humor as Ernesto sat across from her at the small, wrought-iron table. She folded the wallet back into its compact size and slid it into one of the interior pockets of her bomber jacket. She slid her sunglasses away from a pair of brown eyes that were very nearly amber, and she leaned across the table, grinning tauntingly.

"Ah, _si?_ And what makes you think I'd be interested?"

"Most pick-pockets are living on varying degrees of desperation."

The girl flushed and she looked around nervously. Her voice lowered to a hushed tone, "You're not with the _carabinieri,_ are you?" She looked like she would bolt like a frightened deer if he said _yes_.

"No. You're a desperate girl, looking for money, and I'm a desperate boy, looking for a partner."

The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously and she abruptly jumped to her feet. She shoved her sunglasses back over her eyes, teeth gritted. She jabbed him in the chest with an abnormally sharp finger as she glowered at him.

"What do you think I am, _una prostituta_? _Come sfida voi_! How dare you!"

Ernesto grabbed the girl's wrist, keeping her both from slapping him and from leaving as he glared right back.

"That's not the line of work I'm referring to," he answered heatedly.

The girl still glared. "Oh?" She tugged her wrist free and massaged it with her other hand.

"It's obvious you have some idea what you're doing, _si?_ You have some talent with stealing. That's what I'm looking for."

"Oh?" the girl repeated. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously. "And why exactly are you looking for a thief?"

Ernesto only smiled. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, along with a pen, and he wrote out the room number and the hotel he was staying at, as well as a time. He handed the paper to the girl, who examined it with some amount of confusion.

"I'll let you know." He pushed to his feet and was about to leave, but decided to ask, "What's your name?"

The girl watched him warily, but she eventually answered, "Vita Vivace. You can call me Vivie."

He smirked. "That's not your real name," Ernesto said immediately.

Vivie Vivace smiled slightly as she stuffed the paper into her pocket. "A name is a name, yes?" She tilted her head to the side as she studied him, and then she asked, "Do I get to know the name of my possible employer?"

"Ernesto."

"Just Ernesto?"

"A name is a name, yes?" he mocked.

Vivie Vivace pursed her lips, but smiled slightly.

As she turned to leave, Ernesto called after her, "I assume this means you're interested?"

The girl's pace hesitated, and Vivie Vivace glanced back with only a coy smile. "_Vederete,_ Ernesto. _Ciao._"


	4. A Lesson

**A/N: In case you didn't go above and beyond and do some Italian translating, "Vita Vivace" translates into "lively life." I thought it was a cute alias. Review, **_**por favor**_**.**

**Disclaimer: **_**Thief Lord **_**canon belongs to Cornelia Funke.**

* * *

**Mama, We All Go to Hell |4| A Lesson**

It did not take Ernesto long to learn that Vita Vivace was not punctual. She ran an hour and a half late for their meeting, and when she arrived, she had alcohol on her breath. But did not seem the slightest bit drunk; her eyes were bright, her smile was warm, and she was in a good mood.

Of course, Ernesto reasoned with himself, that's probably just the alcohol.

Vivie sat heavily on the bed, carrying a backpack that seemed loaded to the brim with the girl's belongings. If Ernesto didn't know any better, Vivie probably lived out of that bag. She hugged it to her chest as she watched Ernesto with a smile in place.

"_Ciao_," she said serenely. She slowly set her bag on the floor, between her feet, and she extracted a half-empty glass bottle.

Ernesto looked on in distaste as he closed the hotel room door. "Is this what you do with your money? You buy alcohol and drink yourself into oblivion?"

"I don't drink to get drunk," Vivie replied calmly. She took a sip of the clear liquid, but Ernesto knew well enough that that wasn't water. "So I have a few vices. _Così che cosa_? So what?"

Ernesto was alarmed. "Drugs?" His accomplice couldn't be a drug addict—or an alcoholic.

Vivie laughed loudly. "I didn't realize _thieves _had such high standards for their…oh, what's the word I'm looking for?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully. She slowly grinned. "Accomplice. I didn't realize there was a test to become a criminal. But, to answer your question, there are no drugs, and there never will be." Vivie stood, stretched her long, thin arms, and wandered about the room.

She lifted one of Ernesto's masks from the table, and she went to the gilded mirror to hold it up to her face.

"Believe me, Ernesto, I am the most capable girl you are going to find. I'm fast. I'm agile. I'm experienced. I'm young and more or less healthy. I'm easy on the eyes." She flashed him a toothy grin that was oddly attractive, and he quickly looked away before his cheeks could fill with heat.

Vivie must have seen; she laughed and set the mask back down on the table before she began to inspect Ernesto's collection of knives. She touched the razor-sharp tip of one before she continued to speak.

"What kind of thievery do you have in mind, Ernesto?" she asked. She looked at him curiously.

"Anything that will earn us a living."

"Steal and sell," Vivie answered. "Simple enough, although most people don't tend to keep their valuables in their pockets and handbags. And I don't mean wallets filled with a few Euros—I mean the real valuables. Jewelry, heirlooms, expensive electronics…"

Ernesto folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "I was thinking more along the lines of burglary."

Vivie looked surprised. She set the knife back down, not replacing it in its rightful slot in the pouch which instantly bothered Ernesto, and she stared at him. "The big leagues," she said warily. "I'm not—"

"You're not up to the challenge?" Ernesto taunted.

Vivie's eyes hardened. "I was going to say, I'm not quite sure you're ready for that."

Ernesto's jaw clenched, and he narrowed his eyes at Vivie, an expression she mirrored with that sly smirk.

"And what makes you think that?" he asked.

Vivie lifted her right hand, where a familiar wallet was between her first and second fingers. Ernesto gasped and felt his back pocket, but his wallet was gone, in the hands of his so-called accomplice.

"Lesson one: expect the unexpected." Vivie casually flipped through the wallet's compartments, looking amused. "Ernesto Barbarossa," she read off his ID. She laughed. "It sounds like a pirate name."

"Give that back."

Vivie ignored him as she thumbed through the collection of money in the wallet, mentally counting. "Oh, relax, I won't be taking anything." Eventually, she tossed the wallet back to Ernesto, looking smug. "Now, I'm not saying that you won't be able to trust me. You can. But burglary isn't some fun little game where if you get caught, nothing bad happens. Wrong—if you get caught, you will end up in prison or the orphanage, neither of which is an appealing option. Either way, you lose your freedom, which is as good as being dead." Vivie approached Ernesto, closing the distance between them. "If we're going to be _partners_"—she looked amused by the word—"then we're going to have to trust each other. _Rely _on each other. If I'm in trouble, you have to help me, and vice versa. You can't do this without me, and I'm desperate enough to help. And, who knows? We might even become friends."

_Friends_. Ernesto had never been very good with friends. He wasn't quite sure if he hated the word, or if he was intimidated by it. He'd always believed it to be a sign of weakness, having to rely on someone else, _trusting _them, letting them past your guard. He'd never been fond of the idea, in this life or the last. He'd always been a bit of a solitary creature, one for being on his own and not one for company. One could almost call him a bit of a sociopath, or at least, the school's counselor had never been against using the word.

Vivie snapped her fingers in front of Ernesto's face, getting his attention again.

"Okay, that? That spacing-out, lost-in-thought thing you're doing? You should really stop. For this kind of work, you need focus, all the focus you can get. You can't _not _pay attention to what you're doing. Focus is what separates us from them, the victims. They don't pay attention; _we do_. It's how we get away with what we do." Vivie flipped her mane of dark waves over her shoulder, then she wandered back to her backpack.

"And, so you realize, I'm completely homeless," Vivie tacked on, sounding completely cheerful despite the morbidity of her statement. "If I'm gonna be working for you, then you'd better be willing to give me food, clothing, and shelter, whenever I ask for it." She took another swig from the glass bottle.

"That's not—"

"Part of the agreement?" It was like she read his mind. "Well, Mr. Barbarossa, I don't remember ever settling living arrangements with you before. Since I'm already here…," she trailed off, shrugged, then carried her backpack to the bathroom. "I'm going to shower, and then I'm going to bed, _boss_. Tomorrow's another day."

Before she shut the door behind her, Ernesto called after her, "Vivie."

She turned back, and he held up her wallet with a smirk. Her jaw dropped, and she barely caught the wallet when he tossed it back to her.

"Best be paying attention," Ernesto said snidely.

Vivie's eyes narrowed, but she sighed. Before she shut herself into the bathroom, she checked her other pockets to make sure nothing else was missing. "Expect the unexpected," she murmured to herself, trying to ignore the way butterflies had entered her stomach at the sight of Ernesto's smile.


End file.
